We Never Argue
These kinds of moments are like wet hurricanes
they are springing up from the darkest nights.
Calmness is turning into a shrinking figure,
which yields to sounds.
In the shade of dead Moon, they look like thousands
of speeding lightnings heading toward
a milky-blue background in the middle of my head.
When they bump into each other,
with the speed of light, the air becomes solid and hot.
Their blades find the way to the most vulnerable
places and I, blinded, am giving birth to mellowness.
Closing myself into a fist, I hide under the arm,
which was supposed to defend me.
I want to ask him why he became a shelter
for dark nights and why he is hiding knives
under his tongue, but instead, I take off my dress
These moments are like snakes, which
turn into blooming twigs
of a cherry tree that freezes on a sleeve of a summer dress.
Moments like these dissolve in blissful returns,
though slowly and never completely.
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